


We Are Our Choices

by walkwithursus



Category: Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: “If you choose to not deal with an issue,then you give up your right of control over the issueand it will select the path of least resistance.”― Susan Del Gatto





	We Are Our Choices

Just outside the gates of Fort Spencer, Colonel Ives laid his cards on the table. With the Sierra Nevadas at his back he described his vision of a happy, prosperous and cannibalistic future, a future for which he sought eternal companionship. 

To his great dismay, Captain John Boyd refused him. Not one to suffer the raw end of a negotiation, the colonel had a counteroffer in hand in the form of a regimental Bowie knife. 

The blade pierced Boyd’s lung. Ives made sure of that, slipped the point expertly between the ribs that protruded just beneath the thin material of his shirt. A non-fatal wound as promised, so long as he took the proper precautions, but dire enough to expedite Boyd’s decision making. 

Eat or die. Feast or famine. The choice lay before Captain Boyd that evening, as did a bowl of thick, aromatic stew. After the intensity of their encounter in front of the fort, Ives had decided to keep their supper civilized, to demonstrate that though their ambitions might be monstrous their manners need not be. And so they dined before the parlor fire, Colonel Hart and himself well-groomed and well-dressed, not a bloodstain between them. A freshly laundered napkin rested in each of their laps, and for the first time in months Ives chewed thoughtfully and with his mouth closed. Altogether, the affair felt quite sophisticated, exactly the sort of refined atmosphere he'd desired to cultivate at Fort Spencer.

Boyd was beyond noticing such things. His eyes, once sharp and clear, now rolled deliriously in their sockets as a cough shook his shoulders. Blood frothed on his lips, bubbled up and overflowed down his chin and into his unkempt beard. The display was difficult to witness. Each drop that spilled forth was a waste in Ives’ eyes, a lamentable loss of strength and life that could only be re-obtained by sucking the stains from the front of Boyd’s shirt. Unseemly, and quite unnecessary with nearly one hundred and fifty pounds of Major Knox chilling in the meat locker. Still, the temptation was there, prompting Ives to savor another bite of stew and avert his eyes toward the fire. 

The blood Boyd lost was not for nothing, he reminded himself. In the midst of his suffering there was an important lesson to be learned, and to cut it short now would be counterproductive. After all, the goal of the situation was not to save Boyd, but to encourage Boyd to save himself. To cast aside questions of morality and choose companionship, power, and most importantly, life. There was no forcing that sort of decision upon a person, at least not in any real meaningful way that Ives had found. The best either he or Colonel Hart could do was set the right choice in front of the man, hand him a spoon, and hope for the best. 

Captain Boyd coughed again, this time harder and for longer. His complexion transformed from pasty white to deepest purple, and the remaining blood vessels in his eyes burst into pink clouds. Boyd could feel the blood gurgling in the back of his throat, coating his windpipe like oil, like sludge. Each breath felt akin to drowning - and then there were no more breaths. He swayed dubiously in his seat, gulping like a fish to no avail. Colonel Hart lowered his bowl in concern and Ives mirrored him, leaning forward minutely with his brow knit together. 

After nearly an hour Boyd’s lung had finally collapsed. 

It was now or never. 

The failure of his lung set Boyd into a panic. With a wet gasp he sat up, his eyes bulging wildly between Ives and Hart and back again. His hand fluttered near his side as though searching for something, the stew bowl perhaps, and for a moment Ives envisioned himself triumphant. But his hand did not travel toward the bowl as Ives had hoped. Instead Boyd's fingers slipped weakly against the gushing wound at his side, and with a final rattling breath his head lolled back and was still.

Ives barely masked a sigh of exasperation. Before Colonel Hart could so much as blink Ives was on his feet, clapping his hands together. 

“Well, then. I’m afraid the captain will not be joining us for dinner after all,” he announced.

Hart jabbed his spoon concernedly in Boyd’s direction. “Is he alright?” 

Ives knelt before the captain and peeled one of his eyelids back with his thumb. His pupil constricted weakly in the firelight. “Fine, fine,” Ives said, bracing his arms on his knees to stand. “Just exhausted is all. And who could blame him? The poor man hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.” Ives watched as a thin trickle of blood spilled silently out of the corner of Boyd’s mouth. “As a matter of fact, I think I’d best escort the captain back to his quarters for the evening.” 

Hart stood at once and cast his bowl aside. “Do you need assistance?”

“No, no, Colonel, please. Sit. Enjoy your meal,” Ives insisted. The colonel hovered as Ives lugged Boyd to his feet and positioned his arm around his shoulders, but upon observing their steady progress toward the door he settled tentatively back into his seat. 

Outside, the air was freezing. Ives could make out snowflakes swirling in the distance, could see the white puffs of vapor he produced with every exhale, but he could not feel the cold. It no longer penetrated his body the way it used to, chilling him to the bone within a fraction of a second. Along with strength and mental acuity, this new life had afforded him blood warm enough to withstand a blizzard. 

Pitiably, from the way Captain Boyd was shivering, he had yet to receive such a gift. Pausing only long enough to secure Boyd’s position at his side, Ives set off briskly for the captain’s quarters, breath hitching with mild exertion as he bore the larger man’s weight. Along the way, the toes of Boyd’s boots barely skimmed tracks in the freshly fallen snow. 

Once inside the captain’s room, Ives stumped over to the bed and shrugged him off his shoulder. Boyd struck the mattress like a broken doll, all dead weight and awkward angles, his dirty brown hair splaying out in every direction like the bristles of a broomstick. With a cluck of his tongue Ives maneuvered Boyd into a sitting position so that his upper body slumped back against the wall. Halfway between life and death, he appeared truly at peace. 

“It’s a pity it had to be this way, Boyd,” Ives said, lifting a stray lock of hair from the man’s sweat-damp face. Their close proximity allowed him a glimpse of the weak, mouthwatering pulse in Boyd’s throat, and he swallowed reflexively. “Truly regrettable. But it can’t be helped, I suppose. You’re just too damned stubborn.” 

Ives picked up the end of the shackle that claimed Boyd’s wrists and secured it to the ring in the wall. He then withdrew the military issued blade from the holster at his side and inspected its edge. “I tried to make this easy for you, you know. This evening at dinner. I hoped that the familiarity of a home cooked meal might ease your transition.” Ives smirked. “I mean, I certainly didn’t cook that stew for my own benefit. No, no, I prefer my meat much fresher than that. You see, I’ve found that freshness imparts a certain... potency to a man’s flesh. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Boyd?”

With a lingering smile, Ives flicked back the sleeve of his own shirt and cuffed it at the elbow. His forearm was white, wiry, and free of marks, and when he clenched his fist the tendons stood on end. Selecting the thickest, bluest vein he could find, Ives bit his tongue and pierced the knife through his own flesh, sawing the blade in a thick, straight line. His skin parted like butter, like fresh cream, and the vein opened to a flood of deep crimson. The ripe scent soon permeated the chilly air, and Boyd’s eyelids fluttered. 

Careful to keep his arm steady, Ives knelt at the captain’s feet and drew two fingers through the wound he’d created. He held them aloft before Boyd’s face, turning them this way and that in the dying light. Almost immediately Boyd began to stir. “Smell that?” Ives asked, his eyes searching Boyd’s dormant expression with something akin to hunger. “Invigorating. Is it not?” 

Boyd’s neck rolled, and his chin drooped down onto his chest as he lost the scent. Ives shifted closer, spread his fingers so that the blood ran down his knuckles, and Boyd’s head snapped back up with a dull moan. “That’s it,” he said encouragingly as the captain nosed blindly closer. “Now, how about a taste?” 

Obedient in his unconsciousness, Boyd’s chapped lips parted and his tongue appeared, slow and searching. Ives allowed his fingers to drift nearer, tantalizingly close, but in the end it was Boyd who bridged the gap, Boyd whose tongue skimmed the inner corner of one of Ives’ bloodied fingers. He closed his mouth, sucked on his tongue for a moment and swallowed. When he opened his mouth again his tongue was stained red.

“Good man,” said Ives. Boyd continued to wheeze as he dragged his fingers once more across the gash on his arm, accruing a thicker, stickier layer. This time there was no hesitation on Boyd’s part. As soon as Ives’ fingers neared his face he drew them blindly into his mouth, fat, slick tongue twisting and sliding to lap them clean. He sucked them all the way down to the last knuckle, and Ives could just feel the downward curve of his throat swallowing rhythmically around him. When Ives removed his fingers at length Boyd groaned for their loss and trailed after them, sitting up on his own with some difficulty. 

Brimming with satisfaction and lightheaded from the sight of his own blood, Ives extended his forearm for the captain to take. Semi-conscious, Boyd latched onto it and bowed his head. With a full-body shudder he licked a long, stinging stripe from one end of the wound to the other. It was already beginning to close, clotting at the corners and leaking minimally in the middle, but Boyd’s fervency reopened the cut, deepened it, made it new again as he gorged himself. His eyes, now half-lidded and open, were black with single-minded longing, not unlike a wild animal. His tongue dipped into the gash and slid along the length of it, and Ives sucked in a breath as the sensation lit every nerve in his spine on fire. At the first scrape of Boyd’s teeth he tensed, but more profound than the pain was the sound of shredding flesh, and the fervid, open-mouthed chewing that followed. 

Boyd’s breath was soon coming in short bursts, flaring his nostrils as he sucked and licked and tore the muscle from the colonel’s arm. The color returned to his cheeks, and Ives could sense the strength building inside him with every greedy swallow. In his earnesty Boyd dragged him unconsciously nearer, crushing Ives’ arm to his face and maneuvering their position until the colonel was no longer kneeling but hovering above him on the small cot. Ives could smell the rich, unwashed scent of Boyd’s hair, and he ran his free hand through it, knotted his fingers in it so that he might hold the man’s head flush against his wound. 

Only when the majority of Ives’ extremities had gone blue and numb did he wrench Boyd off of himself and step back. Boyd remained frozen in place on the bed, panting, his face sticky and his lips and cheeks painted bright red. Ives stood a ways away, struggling to catch his own breath. The intensity of Boyd’s appetite had excited him just as it had drained his strength, and it was only with immense effort that the he remained upright. 

After a long minute the fog began to dissipate from Boyd's expression, and Ives was pleased to see that his eyes were dazed but clear. As he came around, Ives took the opportunity to unroll his sleeve and straighten his coat about his shoulders. It wouldn’t do for his appearance to reflect any internal weakness - not when Boyd seemed to respond so favorably to a figure of authority. A military man through and through. Ives exhaled a laugh at the thought, and Boyd glanced up as though realizing for the first time that he was there.

“Well, well. It would seem you have quite the voracious appetite after all, Captain,” Ives said, grinning wolfishly in his direction. “Another minute and you might have drained me completely.” 

Boyd blinked in confusion before his gaze fell to the spreading stain on the colonel’s sleeve. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said, reaching up a hand to cover his nose and mouth. Dread pooled in Boyd's stomach as his fingers made contact with sticky skin and an unnaturally crusted beard. Frantically, he scrubbed the back of his hand across his reddened lips and held his fingers aloft. They trembled in the low light, wet and glistening.

“No. No, no, no,” Boyd chanted numbly, scrambling backwards on the cot. One of his hands slipped and he tumbled off and onto the floor with a moan of humiliated frustration. When he resurfaced he was shivering, and Ives could smell the fear coming off him in waves. “Ives... What have you done?”

“What have _I_ done? I think the more appropriate question here is ‘what have _you_ done?’” Ives replied. Chuckling, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window, gazing out onto the courtyard where he'd first explained the Wendigo legend as he’d heard it to Boyd. “A man eats the flesh of another. He steals his strength. He absorbs the other man’s spirit. Considering I’ve eaten well over a dozen by now, you should be feeling quite rejuvenated.” 

Boyd’s stomach turned over. Disgust welled up inside of him for the energy he now felt, the raw, unfettered power that coursed red hot through his veins. It could only be the colonel’s essence inside his body, knitting his wounds and healing his ailments and stoking the hunger in the pit of his belly. Only it wasn’t just the colonel’s spirit - it was George, and Toffler, and Knox, and every other person Ives had ever consumed, all dead, all inside of him, all murdered and cannibalized in cold blood to sustain Ives’ own life. Ives', and now Boyd’s. Boyd welcomed the bile that rose in his throat, awaited the moment he would vomit with fraught anticipation. But it did not come. Doubled over, he spat a few strings of pink saliva onto the floorboards and paused to breathe through the rush to his head. When he finally looked up Ives was lighting a lantern by the door, his face creased with laughter.

“Cheer up, Captain,” Ives said, shaking out the match. “After all, this was your decision.”

“My decision?” Boyd said through clenched teeth, his shoulders shaking with rage. “Is that what you call it? Forcing your blood down my throat?” 

“Force? No, no. I do believe I offered you a choice in the matter. Eat... or die."

"That's not much of a choice."

"Isn't it?" Ives asked rhetorically. "Well, as it turns out, you have quite the discerning palate. Major Knox didn't seem to cut it for you, and so I thought to myself, what if I'd misjudged you, Boyd? What if your hunger was more akin to my own? What if despite all your resistance you desired something fresher, something that would truly _satisfy?_ A man after my own appetite. I figured if that were the case, then this method -" Ives waved his injured arm "- was worth an attempt." 

"You're wrong," Boyd whispered, clawing his hands through his hair. "I wouldn't... If I had known, I would have _never -_ "

"But you did," Ives said simply. He took a few sauntering steps back toward the bed and crouched before the captain, who for once did not cower. "Though it might help you to know that were our circumstances reversed, I don't know that I could have stopped myself from devouring you completely... Every. Last. Bit." 

Boyd shuddered and withdrew as far as he could from the colonel's warm breath in his face. Ives stood at that, and with a parting, toothsome grin, he retrieved his lantern and turned to leave. 

Suddenly, faced with a small window of opportunity and filled with righteous fury, Boyd clambered to his feet and charged the man from behind. He made it no more than a meter before the cuffs around his wrists yanked him to a firm and unforgiving stop. Ives glanced over his shoulder after a delay, utterly unconcerned.

“Careful, now. You don't want to go creating another wound for yourself. The hunger will encroach soon enough as it is," Ives said as he yanked the wooden door of the room open. A gust of wind blew inside, and Ives fought back a curiously rare shiver. Pulling his coat tighter about himself, he ducked out into the snow, imparting his final words through the crack in the door. 

"And next time, I might not be quite so generous as to share my own strength."

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written to explore a different trajectory in the scene where Boyd must eat the stewed flesh of Major Knox to survive. Please consider leaving a kudos and comment. Thank you! 
> 
> PS: Robert Carlyle got Guy Pearce drunk for this scene. There was a bottle of scotch under the sofa and they were pulling from it in between takes. ;)


End file.
